


Great Things Never Came From Comfort Zones

by elizathecat



Category: Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Autistic Aziraphale (Good Omens), Autistic Character, Gen, Knitting, Self-Doubt, Stargazing, internalized ableism
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-11-17
Updated: 2020-12-20
Packaged: 2021-03-10 00:34:12
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 7,610
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27545416
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/elizathecat/pseuds/elizathecat
Summary: After the apocalypse that wasn't, Aziraphale has some time to think and comes to the realisation that he's really not at all like other humans, or other angels in fact.When he overhears two humans talking about autism he immediately connects with the term, but believes he's not allowed to use it because surely, he doesn't struggle enough and the problems he does have are his own fault? Over time, with Crowley's help, he learns to notice and accept his autistic traits, and becomes closer to Crowley in the process.
Relationships: Aziraphale & Crowley (Good Omens), Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Comments: 8
Kudos: 46





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Before anyone reads this I would like to say that every autistic person is different. We all have different combinations of traits, different issues and different paths to understanding ouselves. Aziraphale here is heavily based on my own experience, but if you are (or think you might be) autistic and don't relate to him, that's fine!
> 
> The first chapter is the most heavy on the self hatred and internalised ableism front, but they're both a recurring theme throughout the fic so please don't read it if that will upset you.

It’s funny, the things one overhears in a bookshop. Aziraphale was used to it all: work problems, relationship problems, whispered plotting and children with secrets. He never felt bad eavesdropping, after all he usually helped with a discrete miracle or two when he could, and none of it affected him directly.

Today was different though. 

Two women and their respective children had rushed in in quick succession to wait out the sudden rainstorm. Aziraphale bustled out in response to the bell, but smiled in relief when he realised they weren’t serious customers.

“There are some children’s books that way if you’d like something to do while this storm passes,” he directed, retreating back into the safety of the stacks once they had found the right section.

“Oh look Elise, here’s a dinosaur book,” he could hear one of the women saying, “do you like dinosaurs as well?” she addressed the other child.

There was no response.

“I’m sorry, he doesn’t mean to be rude, he’s autistic and not very good at socialising,” the other woman said in a rush, clearly practised at defending her son.

“Oh, no, don’t apologise, Elise is the same,” said the first. They both stood and watched their children examining the books, and then moved to a window seat by mutual agreement, commenting on the awful weather and how nice it was to meet someone who understood their children.

Aziraphale watched furtively from the row he’d retreated to. He was rooted to the spot, his mind repeating the word ‘autistic’ over and over in the voice of the woman who’d said it. 

‘He’s autistic and not very good at socialising.’

The words made a lot of sense to him; they seemed to click where nothing else ever had.

Why, just the day before he’d sat in Anathema’s kitchen, tired and a little cranky and wanting nothing more than to be back in his bookshop despite how nice it was to catch up with her and Newton and the not-so-Antichrist’s little gang. There had been delightful cake, and he enjoyed the company, and Crowley had been in an uncommonly good mood (which meant he’d probably been up to his usual shenanigans recently) but Aziraphale had found himself sitting silently watching the gathering. There was nothing wrong; he enjoyed spending time with them all, but after singing the cake’s praises and enquiring after everyone’s health he completely ran out of things to say.

That wasn’t unusual. If they weren’t talking about books or a mutual activity (Oh, how he missed the gavotte!), even carefully planned topics of conversation seemed to fizzle out prematurely, no matter who Aziraphale was talking to. He had always put it down to the ever present divide between humans and himself as an angel. A human wouldn’t have much shared life experience to bond over with a 6000 year old being after all; there certainly couldn’t be any of the standard work related small talk with the amount of miracles involved. 

Even regarding his work for heaven, he’d always managed to explain away every fraught encounter he’d had with Gabriel and his cronies, where he stammered his way through not even half of what he had wanted to say. Of course he was nervous; Gabriel was his boss, and a not very nice one at that. Didn’t everyone have to practise every meeting at length in private before actually attending said meeting?

But surely, Aziraphale thought now, those excuses didn’t work with Anathema and the others? He and Crowley didn’t have to hide what they were and they’d averted the apocalypse together! Didn’t that count for something? It seemed to with Crowley at least. He’d never be what any reasonable person would deem enthusiastic, but he’d only complained about going four times since Anathema arranged it a week ago and had talked to everyone present without grimacing more than a few times.

Aziraphale hummed to himself, absentmindedly taking a sip from the mug of cocoa he found on a nearby shelf. If he, an angel, couldn’t manage to be more sociable than Crowley then there must be something wrong. And from the sounds of it there was a genuine neurological condition some humans had which caused them much the same trouble.

He watched the two children through a convenient gap in the bookshelf. The little boy was fluttering the fingers of one hand in front of his eyes as he carefully put the book he was reading from back on the shelf and considered the others. The little girl seemed slightly older – or at least she was much taller, Aziraphale didn’t know much about children – and she stared at the book she was holding for a minute before solemnly offering it to the boy. He took it without looking, immediately flipping through it and she nodded, sitting down and fishing a glittery key ring out of her pocket. Their mothers were still chatting in the window seat, discussing support they had found helpful and how hard it was to access. Aziraphale moved over to his chair quietly, aware he shouldn’t pry too much into their lives.

He sat, frozen, thinking about the encounter long after the two women and their children had left. What they had said, the word autism, had given him a desperate hope that maybe he was okay as he was. His mind was whirling, conjuring situation after situation in which he had unable to interact as people expected, millennia of feeling as if he existed slightly to the left of where the universe was with no way of meeting up.

But the children…Aziraphale had never behaved as they had, had never had the issues their parents spoke about. It seemed disrespectful to even think about taking their language for himself. As content as they seemed in his bookshop, their mothers had discussed alternative communication methods for the non-verbal girl, and calming strategies for the little boy prone to meltdowns. 

How dare he compare himself to them, Aziraphale thought suddenly, a wave of disgust at himself overwhelming everything else. Just because he was a little awkward sometimes didn’t mean he was allowed to pretend he had problems on the level of all the humans with this condition.

His cocoa was cold again. He couldn’t bring himself to miracle it warm, not when he’d already done so multiple times, not when he still couldn’t be absolutely sure if heaven was keeping an eye on him. He thunked a pan onto his stove to heat some more milk and tried to stop thinking about the two children. He concentrated purposefully on adding the right amount of cocoa powder and sugar to the milk, but lost the battle with his thoughts as soon as it was done. 

There really was no need for him to get caught up in this, he fretted, tugging on the hem of his waistcoat as he put yet another mug on the already crowded table next to his favourite chair. He didn’t need a human explanation for his ineptitude in friendships, his reluctance to disrupt his favoured activities in order to perform miracles, he was simply selfish and rude, a bad angel. 

He sank numbly into his chair as soon as the thought crossed his mind. Yes. He knew he was right. If the disaster of an apocalypse, when he spent years going against heaven’s wishes and ultimately tried to murder a child hadn’t proved it, then the horrible thoughts he’d had this afternoon, trivialising other people’s problems in order to feel better about himself certainly had. He was just a bad angel.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The internalised ableism continues, be careful friends.

Aziraphale tried his hardest to not think of it over the next few weeks. He succeeded mainly by cataloguing all of the books Adam added to his shop when setting it back to rights, and rearranging the sections so his most prized books were even more hidden. 

He also chastised himself thoroughly whenever he caught himself trying to compare his unimportant difficulties to those that actually mattered. He couldn’t seem to let go of it, and had to give himself a stern talking to multiple times a day when he noticed himself having a little trouble talking to any of the humans or his thoughts straying in the wrong direction.

It didn’t help that he kept finding books lying prominently on tables – books he was sure he’d already re-shelved a dozen times each. Psychology books, memoirs, self-help books, his entire Sherlock Holmes collection around which a group of students had been clustered, pointing out passages to each other to prove how “totally not neurotypical” the detective was… Aziraphale was fed up. 

“Oh, not again!”

Today’s offering was on the floor in his small textbook section. There was no way it had accidentally fallen, because it was flipped open to a page titled ‘Autism Spectrum Disorder – Diagnostic Criteria’. He approached it warily, not wanting to be reminded of how wrong he was to ever have thought there could be a reason behind his unwelcoming, unangelic behaviour besides his own personal failure.

Even though he was squinting, trying to avoid reading it, he couldn’t help but skim over the page; his curiosity and desperation to know more, to understand, taking over him.  
‘Persistent deficits in social communication’ – well he knew that applied to him, it was obvious in every awkwardly-ended conversation, every time he hadn’t seen what Gabriel and the rest were up to, every time the thoughts in his head got muddled when translated to speech. He wasn’t that bad though, if he just tried a little harder he could get over it, couldn’t he?

The rest of the list… he sank slowly to sit on the floor, his attention absorbed by what he had so carefully been avoiding.

‘Insistence on sameness or adherence to routines’ – Crowley certainly mocked him enough for refusing to wear different clothes or adopt new technologies, and he did like things just so. But he could change things if he absolutely had to, he thought, remembering his time as the Dowlings’ gardener. Oh, he hadn’t enjoyed living in a different place with people he didn’t know, without his lovely book collection, but it was fine. He dealt with it. And anyway, most humans liked a certain amount of sameness in their lives, he couldn’t say he was unusual there.

He skipped a little further down the page.

‘Highly restricted, fixated interests’ – he sighed happily, immediately thinking of his books. He looked around his shop, his collection that he’d been building for centuries. He knew every single book in the building despite the sheer numbers of them, he knew where they were all located, he knew how to direct people’s attention away from those he coveted most to those he liked but was willing to part with (only to the right person of course). No, he couldn’t deny he was very invested in the bookshop, not considering how many frivolous miracles he had done, how mean he was willing to get just to keep people away from his precious books. When he took the time to think about it he did feel vaguely guilty about how he treated some of the humans he was tasked to protect but…they were his books! It just didn’t feel right letting anyone near them.

He looked around his shop once more, satisfying himself there was no one present after having to think such horrible thoughts about giving up some of his collection. He breathed in the familiar, soothing smell of old wood and paper, appreciating the extra soundproofing Adam had given the windows to muffle the sounds of traffic outside. The door locked with a thought and he moved on to the next point.

‘Hyper- or hyporeactivity to sensory input’ – that definitely wasn’t him. His heart sank. He hadn’t even noticed he’d let himself hope, but outside of any times he’d injured his corporation he just couldn’t recall any sensations making him uncomfortable.

‘Stereotyped or repetitive motor movements’ – he let out one final disappointed breath. He didn’t do any of the listed examples – rocking, flapping, repeating sounds – he hadn’t even known they were possible.

This was what he’d been afraid of, the reason he had so carefully avoided doing any research. He let his head fall back and clunk into the shelf behind him, staring blankly at the ceiling, his hands clenched tightly on the bottom of his waistcoat. He couldn’t allow himself to continue thinking he might be autistic, it was selfish of him to even have entertained the idea he could use it as an explanation, an excuse for how out of place he’d always been, he really was the worst angel—

The door opened, the bell jingled overly cheerily and Crowley sauntered round the corner of the shelves.

“Hey Angel! Ready for the ducks?” He held up a bag of bread.

Aziraphale scrambled to his feet, closing the book as casually as he could and putting it back in its place. His fingers tugged on his waistcoat, pulling the soft fabric straight, smoothing down the buttons.

“I’m sorry; I got a bit caught up dear. And shouldn’t you be bringing something other than bread?”

Crowley smirked at Aziraphale’s disapproving tone, letting his suspicion slide off his face while he memorised the location and title of the book.

“Nah, a little bread won’t hurt the ducks, will annoy people who don’t know that though!”

“Oh! You…demon!” Aziraphale exclaimed, unable to come up with a proper comment while his unnecessary heart pounded in his chest, unable to shake the feeling he'd been caught doing something bad.

“Got to keep my hand in somehow eh? Come along.”

Aziraphale sighed heavily once, twice, patting his waistcoat one last time to make sure it sat comfortably, before following Crowley out the door, admonishing the bookshop to make sure it stayed shut this time. Hopefully the park would be nice and quiet and he would be able to put all these stupid thoughts behind him.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Aziraphale's self discovery and immediate denial continues....

Aziraphale didn’t see Crowley for a few weeks after the duck-pond incident. It wasn’t that unusual for the two of them to spend long periods away from each other (a certain century long nap came to mind), so at first he didn’t worry, instead alternately thinking about what he’d read in the psychology textbook and very determinedly Not thinking about it. A fortnight went by with no word, the longest they’d been out of contact since the apocalypse, and Aziraphale started getting worried. The next day he got a very hurried telephone call from Crowley, just a vague excuse about something else coming up and extending his out-of-town trip and he’d see you next week Angel.

He spent the subsequent week moving a few of his favoured books further away from the ones being ‘helpfully’ left out, lest they get contaminated somehow. He also drank an astonishing amount of tea, and paced the familiar floorboards so often he could still hear himself counting once he’d sat down. Surely Crowley would have said if he was in any danger, if (God forbid) Hell had contacted him? 

Then again…they may have been seeing each other more often since the failed apocalypse but the fact remained that Aziraphale had reacted really quite badly the one time Crowley had asked for his help, and he’d certainly never offered any. Aziraphale was sure there was more to friendship than merely going on outings together, and he couldn’t help but feel he’d rather let Crowley down over the millennia. He’d decided just after getting out of Hell that he wanted to let himself be closer to Crowley now he could, to act on the friendship he’d felt for millennia, but the fear of reprimand was hard to shake and he’d found himself falling into old patterns. Crowley deserved nice things though, affection, to be told Aziraphale valued his company. How was one supposed to go about saying those things though? He was sure humans didn’t usually bluntly tell others they were valued, and it certainly wasn’t something there was any guidance on saying to one of the legions of the damned.

Speak of a demon, Aziraphale thought wryly as he spotted Crowley through the windows, screeching to a halt and leaping out of his car. Hi pace slowed to his usual saunter when he got to the doors and Aziraphale smiled fondly at his careful maintenance of his image.

“Ah, Crowley! Nice to see you.” Aziraphale spun round as the bell above the door tinkled, pretending he hadn’t been watching Crowley through the windows.

“Careful, sounds like you missed me.” Crowley smirked, throwing himself onto one of Aziraphale’s couches in an impossible tangle of limbs.

Aziraphale arranged his face to look affronted automatically, before realising this was the perfect opportunity to put his ‘being nice to Crowley’ plan into action.  
“Of course I missed you my dear, I do enjoy your company.”

Crowley turned a fantastic shade of red, nudging his sunglasses a little further up his nose.

“Ssstop I— you— ngk!” he flailed for a moment, looking in serious danger of sliding right off the couch, before settling for a terse head nod.

Aziraphale wrung his hands together, feeling the weight of Crowley’s discomfort settle over the room. Oh, he hoped he hadn’t misread the situation and assumed them closer than they were, a mistake he had plenty of experience with. He dashed out to the back room with some briefly stammered excuse about making tea to try and get control of himself.

When he returned a few minutes later he was greeted by a parcel wrapped in a Tesco bag thrust in his general direction.

“We— friends yes,” Crowley grimaced and nodded towards the bag, “from my trip, just happened to see it.”

Aziraphale beamed.

“Thank you, you didn’t have to get me anything. And I’m glad you also consider us friends.”

He sat next to Crowley, who was now taking up slightly less of the couch, and poured the tea slowly, watching him glare at the parcel from the corner of his eye. He delicately replaced the teapot on the tray and reached for the parcel, clearly a book by the shape of it, not missing how Crowley sat up a little from his artful sprawl.

He took a steadying breath, and pulled the book from its haphazard wrappings. He looked down. A copy of The Hobbit sat in his lap – first edition, no damage to the dust jacket, incredibly valuable.

“Oh! Crowley, thank you, you really shouldn’t have!” he gushed, carefully putting the book on the table before clasping his hands together and wiggling his shoulders in happiness.

“Was nothing, just remembered you liked it,” Crowley mumbled, ducking his head and rubbing one hand on the back of his neck while flapping the other quickly.

“If you don’t mind me asking, ah, that is, how did you…acquire it?”

“I didn’t steal it, Angel.”

“Oh no! I wasn’t accus—”

“I paid for it, with money that won’t be missed.”

“Well, thank you dear, you’re right I do like this book,” Aziraphale smiled widely, wiggling again as he looked at the precious book on his coffee table, “now, let’s have some tea shall we?”

They passed the afternoon catching up on the past few weeks, Aziraphale explaining some of his new organisation system and Crowley gleefully recounting his efforts to sow discord in a countryside knitting group. Aziraphale didn’t quite grasp why that was necessary but he enjoyed Crowley’s excitement and how he lost the thread of what he was saying when Aziraphale gasped and exclaimed what a wicked, clever demon he was.

It wasn’t until later, when Crowley had left to take care of his plants and Aziraphale was carefully selecting just the right position on his most hidden bookshelf for his new treasure and thinking back on the afternoon, that he realised what he’d done. He was smiling fondly to himself, thinking of how sweet Crowley was, no matter how much he denied it, to have remembered Aziraphale talking about a book and then gone out of his way to get his hands on a rare copy. The happiness seemed to well up in his torso and then…he wiggled, his fingers twitching. 

He suddenly remembered what he’d read and tried to put out of his mind several weeks ago, and froze. His fingers immediately flew to grip the bottom of his waistcoat as his thoughts raced. Surely his habit of wiggling his shoulders and hands counted as repetitive movements? As far as he was aware he’d always done it, mostly when he was happy, and he remembered a pair of friends who’d visited his shop using the phrase ‘happy stimming’ to refer to their similar behaviour so that meant…

But no, that was for the humans. He stuffed his hands in his pockets to stop them worrying at his waistcoat and flopped into his chair in a decidedly unangelic manner, his good mood completely deflated. 

How could he have overlooked it? He was 6000 years old! Surely that was enough time for him to know himself? But no…the more he thought about it the more he realised he’d always moved like that, only when alone, when safe, but he’d always wiggled and squirmed and bobbed on his toes. His hands were out of his pockets again and clenched in his lap, thumbs rubbing the knuckles of his fingers. That was another one, another repetitive motion, he thought, though it was a common one amongst humans.

Maybe…he hummed, his thoughts coming slowly…maybe it would be okay to carry on moving like that when he wanted, as long as he made sure to not think of it as stimming? Letting himself move naturally wouldn’t hurt anyone (or at least, it hadn’t in the past 6000 years) but, he thought sternly to himself, he absolutely was not allowed to take words from people who actually needed them just to apply to himself.

With that, he returned his hands to the hem of his velvet waistcoat, letting his thumb slowly caress the familiar fabric, and he turned his thoughts back to Crowley. He really ought to do something in return for his lovely book. At the reminder of the gift, his torso tensed until he deliberately relaxed and let it wiggle excitedly. He sat for a minute, enjoying the warm bubbly feeling of happiness deep in his chest, before turning his thoughts back to the matter of hand. What would Crowley enjoy? Perhaps they could go to the botanical gardens? Crowley had never been as verbose as Aziraphale, but he did like to talk about his plant collection and the species he’d never have room for, and Aziraphale enjoyed listening, loved how happy his friend was talking about his hobby.


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I wrote this chapter back in...June? But I'm going to pretend publishing a Christmas chapter in December was my plan all along ;)

It was Aziraphale’s idea to go to the Christmas market. They always sounded so wonderful in the novels, full of lovely food and hand crafted items and the spirit of the season, but he’d never had time to go before. Christmas was a busy time for miracles, and with Gabriel swanning round pompously reminding everyone he’d done the most important job of them all, Aziraphale had always felt he needed to work extra hard to keep him happy. But this year…this year he hadn’t heard a peep out of Heaven, and Crowley hadn’t mentioned hearing from Hell either so they’d agreed to go to one together.

He was unaccountably nervous though, pacing around his bookshop trying to remember everything he’d read about Christmas markets so he jumped when the door of the bookshop swung open, admitting a blast of cold air closely followed by Crowley.

“Ready to go Angel?”

“One moment dear,” Aziraphale called from the back room, checking the time and location on the flyer one more time just to make sure, before tucking it carefully into his pocket. He emerged from the shelves to see Crowley poking at one of the hanging paper snowflakes.

“Oh do leave the decorations alone Crowley.”

Crowley turned slowly, raising an eyebrow and very deliberately poking the very centre of a snowflake, making it sway gently on its string.

Aziraphale narrowed his eyes, but walked right past him and out the door. He heard the bookshop doors shutting firmly on Crowley’s heels, making him yelp in indignation. He quickly stifled his unangelic smirk, waiting for Crowley to unlock the Bentley.

As they wove into the London traffic, Crowley slipped something out of his pocket and fed it into the CD player. The first notes of “Last Christmas” floated through the speakers and Aziraphale turned to look at him in surprise.

“Christmas music, Angel. To get us feeling…Christmassy or whatever,” Crowley grimaced, ducking his head and staring intently through the windscreen, “It’s a new CD but I don’t know how long we’ve got until it turns to Queen.”

“I do like Christmas music,” Aziraphale beamed, carefully not saying the words he knew Crowley would hate.

They made it there in no time despite the holiday traffic and Aziraphale bounced excitedly on his toes as he got out of the car, staring at the lights in wonder. There were so many festive things to do! Mulled wine and roasted chestnuts and ice skating and looking for presents... Aziraphale was jolted out of his planning by Crowley, who had rounded the car and nudged his hand behind Aziraphale’s elbow to direct him towards the entrance.

Led by Crowley, they made a beeline for the nearest stall selling mulled wine. Aziraphale folded his hands around the paper cup and closed his eyes as he inhaled the warm steam rising gently from it, quietly miracling just a little too much money into the vendor’s till. So far the Christmas market was just as lovely as he’d always dreamed it would be. He raised an eyebrow at Crowley to make him put his cup in a bin instead of on the ground, and the two of them made their way down the first row of stalls.

The Christmas market was lovely, Aziraphale firmly reminded himself a while later. There were lots of humans all full of the joy of the season, playing music and calling to one another. Oh. Dear Lord, there were a lot of humans. A couple of children ran past, holding balloons and shrieking in delight and Aziraphale jerked away from them, stumbling into Crowley’s side.

“You okay there?”

“Oh,” Aziraphale blinked hard, swallowing, “yes I’m fine, you look at that lovely scarf dear.”

He rubbed the bottom edge of his waistcoat, caught himself, thrust his fists into his coat pockets and scratched his thumbnails against the side of his fingers. The rush of noise in his ears disoriented him and he squinted, trying to bring the lights of the market back into focus. The words ‘sensory overload’ floated round his mind and he banished them firmly. That was for people much worse off; he was fine. He was fine?

He missed the suspicious look and raised eyebrow Crowley gave him, but went along gratefully when Crowley put a firm hand around the back of his elbow and led him down the pathway. They paused by a stall that smelled absolutely divine and then Crowley was leading him on, out of the market, his grip around Aziraphale’s arm the only thing that wasn’t swimming slightly.

They walked a little way into the nearby park, their way lit by Christmas lights strung through the trees. Aziraphale smiled as he saw them, twinkling among the branches. His ears were ringing, the sudden quiet more jarring than the constant chaotic noise but relieving all the same.

Crowley directed him onto a bench tucked into a bushy alcove, and sat down next to him. “Here you go Angel,” he said, handing Aziraphale one of the takeaway cups he was holding.

Aziraphale lifted it and inhaled the rich chocolatey smell, poking his tongue out delicately to lick some whipped cream off the top. Crowley had his own cup without the cream, and he seemed to be using it more to keep himself warm if his hunched shoulders were anything to go by.

“Oh are you cold dear?” Aziraphale couldn’t help but fret. There had been braziers every few feet in the market, not to mention the crowds keeping the cold wind out.

“A little,” Crowley answered honestly, to Aziraphale’s surprise, “But not enough to worry about.”

“If you say so, but do tell me if you want to go back to the market,” he winced a little at the thought, but he could take some discomfort to make sure Crowley wasn’t too cold.

“I’d rather go back to your nice quiet bookshop, sit in front of the fire, have some hot chocolate that actually tastes nice.”

“This does taste nice!” Aziraphale defended his lovely cup of cocoa.

Crowley mumbled something. Aziraphale was fairly sure he knew what it was but asked him to repeat it anyway, pressing his lips together in a pantomime of innocence.

“I said the way you make it is better,” Crowley said very quietly.

“Well I’d better make some for you hadn’t I?”

He relaxed as soon as they crossed the threshold into the peace of the bookshop. Crowley' warning look implied he knew Aziraphale was about to apologise, so he kept quiet, bustling into the ktichen. Having made the promised cocoa Aziraphale sank into his couch at Crowley’s side, pulling the blanket off the back and spreading it over their legs. Crowley flickered his tongue into his mug and smiled. Neither of them spoke, the only sound in the shop the quiet crackling of the small fire in the grate. 

Aziraphale slowly let himself slump further into the soft cushions, losing his usually rigid posture in favour of comfort. Crowley moved his legs for what seemed like the hundredth time, somehow achieving yet another chaotic arrangement of limbs. One leg came into contact with Aziraphale’s where they were tucked into the blanket, and Crowley jerked away for a moment. Aziraphale smiled in what he hoped was a soothing way, shuffling a little closer to Crowley, who took the hint and extended his leg to press their calves together. Aziraphale wriggled in delight at the small affection, and both of them giggled quietly, snuggling further into the warm cocoon they’d created while outside the windows it began to snow.


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> We've made it to Christmas! I love crocheting so I had to add it into this fic :3

As excited as Aziraphale was for a work-free Christmas, by the time the day arrived he had bypassed disgruntled and was heading rapidly for thoroughly ticked off. His favourite cafes and restaurants were so busy even miracles couldn’t get him through the doors and people kept coming into his shop. Not only coming in; they kept trying to buy things, insisting their friend/relative/significant other would love to have whatever rare book they’d set their sights on. He had sold an uncomfortable amount of the less valuable books he kept specifically for misdirecting persistent customers to, and even a few of his nicest books when he got a feeling they’d be going to a good home.

It had been an exhausting week, so he’d just woken from a rare indulgent nap when Crowley stormed through the doors looking as cranky as Aziraphale felt.

“I do hope you’ve brought the alcohol,” he said plainly, shrugging on his jacket and missing the look of shock on Crowley’s face. “It’s definitely necessary after the week I’ve had; did I mention I had to sell my lovely _Illustrated Book of British Butterflies_ and– Crowley?”

Crowley was still stood in the doorway, his mouth hanging open and his sunglasses sliding slowly down his nose.

“Are you okay dear?”

Crowley made a squeaking noise and nodded vaguely, eventually managing to croak out “Your hair, Angel.”

“My hair? Oh!”

Aziraphale looked in the mirror. His usually well-fluffed curls were tangled, squished flat on one side and sticking directly out the other. 

“Terribly sorry dear, I wasn’t intending to sleep for so long so I suppose I’m a little less put together than usual,” he flattened his hair hastily, running his fingers through it to get it sitting right. 

Crowley made another strangled squeaking noise and pushed his sunglasses back up, “Uh, y’re fine it’s–”

Aziraphale raised an eyebrow, wondering why Crowley was practically squirming.

“It’s cute okay! You look…very nice when you’re all sleepy like that and it caught me off guard.” Crowley grumbled, glowing a fantastic shade of red and sinking onto the nearby couch with his face in his hands.

Aziraphale stood stock still, looking like he was buffering, before bursting out with “Your face also looks nice!”

Crowley raised an eyebrow.

“That is to say, um, your hair is a pretty colour and I like your eyes very much.”

“Oh shaddup,” Crowley smirked, no longer uncomfortable now that Aziraphale was the one making a fool of himself, “just…come here and open your Christmas present.”

“Oh yes,” Aziraphale scurried out of the room to fetch his gift for Crowley, prompting an indignant noise from the abandoned demon.

“There you are!” said abandoned demon exclaimed when Aziraphale returned, “people don’t usually run away from presents you know.”

“Yes, obviously Crowley, I was just fetching yours,” he groused handing over a rattling box, and a tray of small plants with a tartan bow stuck to the side. Crowley immediately scrabbled at the paper, ripping off shreds and throwing them to the floor where they helpfully tidied themselves into the recycling bin.

“Tartan again? Really?” he said, looking at the tin he’d unwrapped.

“It’s stylish!” Aziraphale replied, more out of habit than actual protest, “Just open the tin.”

Crowley complied, finding several dozen of his favourite savoury biscuits stacked in rows.

“They’re herbs,” Aziraphale explained, nodding at the tray of seedlings, “so you can grow your own to make biscuits with.”

“They’ll make the best biscuits if they know what’s good for them,” he snarled at the herbs, adding an insincere smile at Aziraphale’s shocked look, “here’s yours Angel,” he added, dumping a large squishy parcel in Aziraphale’s lap. 

He carefully peeled each bit of tape off the shiny paper, sticking them on top of each other on the arm of the couch while Crowley shook his head fondly. The paper fell open, revealing a set of knitting needles and several balls of yarn in various colours. He touched them. They were soft under his fingers and squished pleasingly when he applied pressure.

“I thought you might like to learn to knit?” Crowley said hesitantly, one hand trying to subtly scoop his sunglasses off the coffee table.

Aziraphale reached out to pat his hand, reluctantly letting go of the soft yarn he was still stroking. 

“It’s a lovely idea, I think learning to knit will be really rather fun.”

Crowley’s nose scrunched. “Really rather fun?” he mimicked.

Aziraphale’s lips pursed. “Well you’re the one who had the idea in the first place dear, something must have made you think it would be enjoyable.”

“Wha—? No, not knitting, knitting’s for boring people ‘s what Anathema said.”

“Oh Anathema said? How is she, I haven’t heard from her in a while.” questioned Aziraphale overly innocently, now thoroughly enjoying himself.

A small hiss slipped out, followed by a fearsome glare when Aziraphale made the mistake of cooing delightedly.

“She taught me to crochet, wanted someone to do it with,” Crowley mumbled, continuing even more quietly, “said it would help with my ‘grumpiness.’ ”

Aziraphale rubbed his fingers over the yarn, trying and failing to stop beaming at the ridiculous creature in front of him.

“Shut up!”

“I’m not saying anything dear boy.”

“Crochet’s badass,” he pouted.

“Whatever you say, now help me figure out how to knit will you?”

They spent a very peaceful Christmas afternoon on the couch, a handy plate of nibbles always within reach. Crowley found several basic knitting videos on his phone and they both puzzled through them, not understanding references to ‘continental style’ or why everyone had very strong opinions on the best type of needle, but Aziraphale eventually managed to make a small lumpy rectangle.

“I think I can get along well enough now,” he said, petting his little rectangle happily, “you can have your phone back.”

Crowley didn’t move, just side-eyed Aziraphale. “I was thinking I could crochet? We could…at the same time I mean,” he stuttered.

“Oh! Yes dear, that would be pleasant wouldn’t it?”

Crowley grimaced, sliding further into his sprawl to reach the bag by his feet and pull out…a loop? At Aziraphale’s questioning look he scowled harder, blushing, and mumbled “plant cozy. For when it snows.”

Aziraphale pressed his hands together between his thighs to stop himself from outright squealing at Crowley, knowing it wouldn’t be appreciated. “That sounds lovely dear. Do you think I could turn this rectangle into a plant cozy if it goes well?”

Crowley ducked his head a little and scrunched his nose, “yeah whatever, sounds good Angel.”

They fell silent; the only sounds the fire and the gentle click of Aziraphale’s needles. Crowley tucked his feet up onto the couch, swivelling so his back was against the arm. Aziraphale laboriously knitted another row and laid his rectangle out on his knee pressing the bobbles, enjoying the doubled sensation of pressure and softness. Crowley stretched his legs out slowly, tentatively, his boots melting into thick woollen socks. Aziraphale froze, watching his progress in conquering the space between them, anticipating the contact. Crowley stopped millimetres from Aziraphale’s thigh, which lifted just enough to be a clear invitation, and he slid his cold feet into the warm gap between the plush couch cushion and his equally plush angel. Aziraphale remained stock still for a minute, the only thought ricocheting around his head ‘he’s touching me he’s touching me he’s touching me’. It took him a few deep, measured breaths to settle into the contact, unfamiliar with touch as he was, but it was his familiar bookshop and his familiar Crowley so… He carried on knitting once the alarm had gentled into a background hum of awareness, a quiet bubble of happiness welling inside him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The next couple of chapters might come a bit slower because life is kicking me constantly right now, but I'll get them up eventually. If I don't finish one before Christmas, I hope you all have a good time :D


	6. Chapter 6

“Do you miss the night sky sometimes?” Aziraphale asked, looking up through the bookshop windows one cold January evening. Even his ethereal eyes couldn’t properly see the stars past the glow of the streetlamps and surrounding shops. 

Crowley sat up from where he was draped upside down on the couch, looking over to the window. “All the time,” he said lowly, eyes darting to his sunglasses on the coffee table, “but I go and see the stars sometimes.”

“You go to the…?”

“No!, No that’s not what I…I know a few places with less light and I go…” he trailed off, grimacing and flapping one hand vaguely, “y’know, lie down and look at them.”

“Oh, you go stargazing? That sounds lovely!” Aziraphale enthused, bouncing on his toes in excitement.

Crowley looked away quickly, trying to hide a fond smile. “We could go now if you want?” 

Aziraphale’s face fell. “Now? As in, right now? Today?”

“Eh, don’t have to if you don’t want.” Crowley tried to say offhandedly.

“No, now is fine,” Aziraphale rushed to reassure him, feeling as if now was very much not-fine because, well, he’d had plans. Granted, those plans were only to stay in his bookshop with Crowley and maybe do some knitting, which he could do at any time. “Now is fine, dear,” he said more firmly, trying to convince himself as much as Crowley.

Crowley squinted suspiciously, seeming to be aware he was lying, but heaved himself to his feet anyway. “Get your coat Angel, going to be a chilly night.”

Aziraphale wrapped himself up thoroughly in his coat, scarf, hat and mittens, pulling a second scarf from the stand and shyly turning to Crowley. “I made you this,” he offered it out, hoping it wouldn’t be laughed at; he had dropped several stitches after all.

Crowley didn’t respond.

“Sorry, sorry, I know you have very specific tastes, I should have thought—”

“No!” Crowley stumbled over his own feet in his haste to take the offered scarf, “I mean yes, thank you Angel, that was very er, kind of you.” He wrapped the scarf around his neck quickly, burying his flaming face in its folds.

“Oh I’m glad you like it, I was so very pleased with my Christmas gift dear,” Aziraphale chattered as they climbed into the Bentley and sped off into the night, “you were right you know, the repetitive movements of knitting are so soothing, really it’s lovely—”

Crowley hid his pleased smile in the scarf as he drove. As undemonic as it was, he was glad his plan to get Aziraphale something that would help him for Christmas had worked.

Aziraphale’s ramble about the calming powers of yarn craft petered into silence as they passed the M25 and headed further from London. He was excited to go stargazing with Crowley. He was. But…he’d meant to be in his bookshop with Crowley at this time and now he wasn’t. His hands clenched together, one thumb rubbing at the joints of the other in an effort to stop his hands grasping at his waistcoat, a more obvious action Crowley would be sure to notice. 

Crowley went very still for a moment, and then slowly reached over to turn down the stereo, the ever-present blaring Queen songs now a more pleasant background noise. 

Aziraphale looked over in surprise, but Crowley had his ‘I’m a terrible demon who never does nice things because that’s a four letter word’ face on so he didn’t comment, focussing on the darkening sky ahead of them.

“Nearly there Angel.”

Aziraphale quirked his lips into an approximation of a smile even though Crowley wasn’t looking. 

The night air was cool on Aziraphale’s face when he stepped out of the Bentley, and he stopped for a moment with his face tipped to the sky, eyes closed, to feel the breeze across his skin. After a couple of deep breaths he felt steady enough to open his eyes, and saw Crowley gazing at him, the tiniest fond smile gracing the demon’s mouth.

“C’mon then, there’s a bench over here I usually sit on, got a good view.”

Aziraphale scooped the blanket he’d brought out of the backseat and trotted after Crowley. Crowley had already sat by the time Aziraphale crested the small hill. The bench he led them to was right at the top, the heath laid out below them, and the wide dark expanse of sky above. The stars were glittering like pinpricks of light, laid out in their familiar patterns and constellations and Aziraphale was captivated, motionless in front of the small wooden bench, requiring Crowley take the blanket from his lax fingers so it didn’t drop to the floor.

“Oh! Oh, it’s beautiful Crowley,” Aziraphale breathed, hardly daring to disturb the peace of the hilltop.

Crowley made a strangled noise, and Aziraphale whipped round, worried. The demon perched on the bench had his nose scrunched up, his leg bobbing up and down rapidly. He took several deep breaths, seemingly wanting to say something.

“Thanks Angel,” he ground out, looking more uncomfortable by the second, “I thought it would be romantic.”

Aziraphale gasped. Romantic? Well, yes, it was, he supposed, the deserted hill, the beautiful view, the knowledge that this was a special place Crowley wanted to share with him. But…Crowley knew what romance was? Crowley wanted to do romance? With him? A fussy, self-centred, not very angelic angel? Wait, no, Crowley was pushing himself off the bench looking frantic.

“Sorry, must’ve misunderstood, I thought we were…sorry.”

Aziraphale could only stare blankly at Crowley, horrified with himself for upsetting the demon so. _Tell him_ his mind screamed _Tell him he’s the being you care most about on this whole blessed planet!_ He could only shake his head emphatically, grasping Crowley’s hand and holding on even when he flinched away from the movement. He continued shaking his head until Crowley had stopped pulling away and coughed a few times to try and clear his voice.

“Crowley dear….” he coughed again, “Crowley, dearest, I wasn’t rejecting your…advances. I was simply shocked.”

“Sorry,” Crowley whispered again, so quietly Aziraphale would have thought it was the wind if he hadn’t seen his lips move.

“No, I’m sorry, I should have been paying more attention to our relationship so I didn’t scare you like that.” He tugged Crowley back to the bench, pushing him down and sitting close so they could both fit under the blanket which had been left there. “I didn’t realise you saw this as romantic but I certainly have no objection to that,” he continued as he tucked the edges around Crowley’s thin form, “I’m not sure I could say I see it like that myself, not at this moment, but I would be willing to…explore a little more commitment at the least. Oh my dear you’re shaking!” he exclaimed, feeling Crowley shivering against his side.

“M’okay Angel, just adrenaline, fun stuff when it wears off,” Crowley stuttered out around the shuddering of his chest.

“Is there anything I can do to help? I’m so, so sorry dearest.” Aziraphale fretted.

“I’ll be okay Angel, don’t worry,” Crowley gritted out, still wracked by tremors, “but maybe we could…uhm, if you want, we could hold hands? And look at the stars?”

Aziraphale looked at the demon’s fluffy hair and tried to smile reassuringly. He wordlessly reached out and took Crowley’s hand, rubbing his thumb gently over the bump of his wrist.

“When you’re ready…would you like to tell me about the stars?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ok, my original plans for this fic didn't involve these two getting into a relationship but sometimes life happens and it bleeds into fic :) It's going to stay pretty undefined so you can read it as queerplatonic or romantic depending on your preference!

**Author's Note:**

> I have most of this fic written already so I should be able to update fairly often.
> 
> My tumblr is eliza-the-cat if you want to say hi/have questions about the fic/autism in general/you relate to how Aziraphale is feeling in this chapter and need someone to talk to. I'm always delighted to get messages and I promise you aren't bothering me :)


End file.
